Dive Bars on Saturday Night
by meyerlemon
Summary: Kate and Tony and Abby ill-advisedly go drinking.


Title: Dive Bars on Saturday Night

Author: LYJ

Rating: PG-13

Category: G/K.

Archive: Fo sho!

Disclaimer: Not mine, geez. Killjoy.

Summary: BCavis' Drunk Pony Challenge! I heart BCavis. And ponies. :: Kate and Tony and Abby ill-advisedly go drinking.

* * *

They're in the kind of bar that has a mechanical bull in the corner, the kind of bar where girls get up on the bar and dance. Not strippers. Just regular girls who are drunk and raucous and really like the song playing over the bar's sound system.

Still, Kate feels sort of like she's in a strip club, especially when the blonde girl in the short skirt gets up on the bar in front of Tony and slaps her bare thighs. The sound resonates, even over the cheesy rock music. Kate jerks on her bar stool.

Tony and Abby high-five each other. The group of guys next to her cheers loudly.

Kate is so embarrassed that she takes the drink DiNozzo puts in front of her and slams it down. It burns. She thinks it might be tequila, but she's not sure anymore. Her mouth is kind of numb at this point.

Of course, she knows that this is stupid. For one thing, she won't be able to drive home, and for another, she doesn't really like being drunk. To be a good drunk, you have to be okay with losing a certain level of control, and Kate isn't. Where other people are cheerful, Kate gets a little anxious. When she's drunk, she has a constant feeling that she needs to watch her back. It baffles her that other people don't feel this way, that they can so freely give themselves up to the bottle.

She leans over to Abby, and misjudges the distance. Abby steadies her, a hand around her upper arm.

"Wow," Abby says. "You're kind of a lightweight."

"How can you not be horrified," Kate says. (At least, that's what she thinks she says: in reality, she adds a bonus syllable to "horrified". But Abby understands.)

"About the girls?"

"Yes," Kate says. "About the... **girls**."

"Come on, Kate! That girl's up there, owning her sexuality. You should be proud."

That, of course, is Tony.

Kate says something complex and philosophical thought about how Tony's blessing almost by definition means that something deeply wrong is happening, and about how famous feminists of the past might not have specifically been fighting for a woman's right to shake her ass in Anthony DiNozzo's face, and then she segues into a commentary on her feelings about women who pose in Playboy and act like they're performing some kind of radical political act, when really they're facilitating the masturbation habits of teenage boys. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

After she's done speaking, Tony just stares at her. For a minute.

"Was that... Swedish?"

Abby laughs, hiccups, laughs again.

"It was not Swedish," Kate says, indignant. "I was saying—never mind."

Abby laughs harder. Tony refills their shot glasses. Kate realizes that the tequila is actually vodka. Tony and Abby down their shots. Kate figures they must be at least pretty drunk by now, but she's wrong: they're completely retarded. They're so hammered that when a new song comes over the speakers, something loud involving wailing guitars, Abby gets up from her bar stool, shoves the thigh-slapping blonde aside, and clambers up onto the bar.

It's only because Tony pushes her back that Kate doesn't fall from her stool: Abby is gyrating in a way Kate would literally have never thought possible. Abby is very cute to her, but not the kind of girl she would have suspected of doing those Carmen Electra Strippercize tapes.

Not that she would know. Obviously.

The group of guys next to them makes loud, apelike noises of approval in Abby's direction. Kate shakily stands up.

"You can't leave," Tony says. "This is the best part."

"You've seen her do this before?"

"No, but I'm just saying, there are girls dancing on the bar, and I work with one of them. This is pretty much as good as it gets."

Abby turns to face them and lifts her shirt. For a second. Kate thinks she sees boobs, but she's instantly deafened by the howling of various menfolk around her.

"I'm just going to the bathroom," Kate says.

She's lying, obviously. At this point her plan is to sneak past the bathroom, go outside, call a cab, go home, pass out, and try to scrub the thought of Abby on the bar off her brain.

"Okay," Tony says, but he's not looking at her. He's looking at Abby. And the way he's looking at her is another thing she needs to wipe.

"Okay," Kate says. "I'll be back."

Tony doesn't hear her. He's too absorbed in watching Abby shimmy her hips.

There's a line for the ladies' room. Kate stands behind a forty-something redhead. The redhead is checking her flawless makeup in a compact mirror as she waits. Kate, suddenly a little self-conscious, tucks her hair behind her ears, and rifles through her purse for lip-gloss.

The redhead turns around and smiles at her.

"Long line," she says.

"Yup," Kate says, and feels like an idiot. The redhead smiles graciously, and smoothes a manicured hand down her skirt. Kate realizes that the woman is wearing nylons and stiletto heels. She also realizes that she herself has broken two nails on her left hand. She balls her fists.

The redhead is the kind of woman who makes Kate feel gawky and awkward, even though she knows she's not. The redhead is very polished: a grown woman, whereas Kate sometimes feels like she still dresses like she did when she was fifteen. She knows that men find her attractive, and, usually, when she looks in the mirror, she's happy with what she sees. But she's never been the girl who could slink across a room.

She feels faintly silly when she wears a skirt. She's not sure she even owns any nylons. And she could never wear lipstick that vibrantly red. Pulling off that shade of fire-engine crimson takes that particular brand of self-confidence Kate doesn't have.

Finally, the line moves. Kate makes it to the bathroom, pees, washes her hands. She avoids looking at herself in the mirror, especially when the redhead comes out and touches up her makeup needlessly. They leave the bathroom almost simultaneously.

The redhead, walking in front of Kate, sways up to a tall, older man.

"Hi," Kate hears her say.

"Hey, you," she hears the man reply, and she stops in her tracks.

The man is her actual **boss**.

Her actual boss is in a bar.

With a woman.

Her brain is saturated in several gallons of alcohol, but it's still working at a high enough speed to calculate that this can mean one of two things:

Gibbs is here on a date with the redhead.

Or,

Gibbs is just randomly here in the bar and the redhead is picking up on him, and he's letting her.

She's not sure which of these options is more horrifying. Either way, she's pretty sure that it means that the redheaded woman is Gibbs' type, and that spells bad news for a certain Ms. Caitlin Todd and the unfortunate crush she has on a certain middle-aged NCIS agent.

Kate thinks she should leave the bar. Or go over and tell Abby and Tony who's here, so they can flee together. Or maybe she should go up to Gibbs and casually say hello and offer to buy him a drink and ask him back to her place.

Wait. That's not right.

Okay. She's totally in control of this situation. It doesn't matter that she's now so drunk she's having a hard time standing. She needs to leave- yeah, leave, get a cab, go home. Leave the place where Gibbs is.

That's an **excellent** idea, she thinks to herself. She turns toward the door, feeling for her cell phone so she can call a cab. It's not in her purse. She turns back to the bar: did she leave it there?

Just then, Tony comes bounding up to her, and hands over her cell.

"Kate, you left your cell—Hey, Gibbs!"

Kate freezes. Oh, no. That's bad. That's definitely bad.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs says, slowly. Kate looks up. He's looking at her.

"Oh, God," she says.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Nothing, Tony. Hey, Gibbs."

"What are you doing here?" Tony asks. "This place is wild! Abby's up there on the bar, right now! Hey, you want a drink?"

Gibbs has made space for the redhead to lean into him a little. He doesn't have his arm around her, but his hand is kind of hovering over her back.

Kate feels a little sick.

"Tony," she says. "He doesn't want a drink. He's here with a friend. Let's go."

"I see that," Tony says, oblivious, or malicious. "Introduce us, boss?"

He grins at the redhead, who smiles back, accepting his admiration as her due: she's a beautiful woman. Gibbs looks down at her and smiles. To Kate, he looks possessive.

She feels a little bit like she might cry.

"Tony," she says again, "come on. Seriously. I'll buy you a drink."

Tony's still grinning at the redhead. Gibbs doesn't seem annoyed, but she guesses he's probably used to men looking at his date like that.

"I could have a drink," Tony says. "But I think I'm done with the vodka for tonight. Gibbs, what's your poison?"

"Tony—"Kate says, but is interrupted by Gibbs.

"Scotch," he says.

"Single malt?"

"Yep," Gibbs says.

(Kate doesn't like how hot she finds it when Gibbs says "Yep". It's one of the sillier aspects of the unfortunate crush. She wishes it would go away.)

"I don't know if they have anything decent here," Tony says. "You might have to settle for—"

He pauses to, well, leer at the redhead. Kate is not too drunk to be mortified.

"A Long, Slow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall."

"Tony!"

"Kate, it's a drink—"

"I know it's a drink, Tony, it's just- you can't—"

Tony looks at her thoughtfully.

"You're uptight," he finally says.

"I am not!"

"You kind of are," he says. "Seriously."

Kate glares at him.

"Just because I don't dance on bars—"

"Not for nothing, Kate, but you're uptight. For real."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs says, and that is enough.

"Yes, boss?"

"Go back to Abby," Gibbs says.

"Yes, boss," Tony says, and leaves.

Kate studies the ground for a minute. She looks up. The redhead is smiling at her. Gibbs is not. She's not sure if he looks concerned or annoyed, but either way, it's definitely not the kind of look you give someone when you secretly want to make out with her.

"I'm not uptight," she says to him, because it suddenly seems important that he not think her so. He says nothing. He doesn't even make a noncommittal sound, and she was counting on that, at least.

This is maybe the worst part about Gibbs, that when she puts something out there, she gets nothing back. She's not expecting him to argue with her, or agree with her, or anything. But something besides the stoic blankness would be nice. She feels like she spends her working life exposing herself to this man, and withdrawing, and exposing herself again. She's tired of it. She just wants it to go away, already. It's stupid, and it hurts. Why can't she go to a bar and meet a nice guy her own age? Maybe one who's not a terrorist or involved in espionage?

"Okay," she finally says, when she realizes that Gibbs is absolutely not going to say anything else. "I'm going to go. It was nice to meet you," she says, as an afterthought. The redhead smiles at her again.

Outside the bar, she stops to lean against the wall and breathe the cool air. She has already called the cab company and been lied to about how fast they'll come pick her up when Gibbs appears.

He just stops next to her and leans against the wall, like she's doing. The night is quiet. She can hear sirens in the distance. She counts beats of silence in her head.

Sixty-two, sixty-three—

"Kate," he says. He clears his throat. "Kate. I—"

"She's pretty," she blurts out. "Your friend. She's beautiful."

Gibbs is silent.

"Yes," he finally says. "She is."

"I like her hair," Kate says. She can't stop talking, like you can't stop feeling a sore in your mouth with your tongue. "And her outfit. She's very sophisticated. You should go back in before Tony hits on her. I'm sure she gets a lot of attention when you're not there to deflect it."

She's being mean, now, to both her boss and her friend, but she doesn't care.

"Kate," Gibbs says, again, and she stops talking, because she always stops talking when he says her name like that, and maybe always will.

"Shit," he says, and takes a step away from the wall. His back is to her, and his hands are in his pockets. She wants to step forward and lean into him and rest her head on his shoulder blade.

"You're a kid," he finally says.

"I'm not," she snaps. "Jesus Christ, Gibbs. I'm not a fucking kid."

"You're a kid," he insists. "And you'll understand when you're—"

He stops.

"Older," Kate finishes.

"I sound like your dad," he says.

"Yes," she agrees.

Gibbs grunts. He still doesn't look at her.

"There are things," he says, his voice harsh, "That you think you want, when you're young. But a year or two later, you're grateful that you didn't get them, because they would have fucked up your life in ways you didn't even see coming."

"You don't know what I want," Kate says, her voice breaking. He turns back to her.

"Kate—"

"Fuck you," Kate says. It feels amazingly good to say it out loud. She tries it again, with less venom.

"Fuck you."

He says nothing. They wait in silence until the cab comes.

He holds the door while she gets into the back seat and he gives the cabbie an extra twenty to make sure she gets inside okay.

Kate watches him in the cab's rearview mirror until they turn a corner.

He never says goodbye.

fin


End file.
